


The Songs of Wolves

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Chivalry, Dreams, Eventual Romance, F/M, Music, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Arya Stark, Quests, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Stark Sisters, The Faceless Men, The House of Black and White, ancient magics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: As a Faceless Man, and Arya, too, she knows more than anyone the importance of names. She had been confused when the House had released her back into the world. She had thought she had failed an unspoken test. She is not confused now. This is a name only she understands the true significance of. This is a name only she can follow.Or the one where Arya decides to save Sansa from the Boltons, encounters yet more forms of strange and ancient magics, and allies with a Lion who turns out to be connected to her elder sister in a way she never could have anticipated.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister & Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 108
Kudos: 327





	1. ARYA I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I hope you're all safe and well! I could not resist posting this, this idea really is one I haven't been able to shake at all. I'm really excited about this, and I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> This is my first time writing from Arya's POV, I've rather enjoyed it.
> 
> I can't wait to see what you all think of it!
> 
> Until next time xx

* * *

PART ONE

* * *

ARYA

She is Arya again. The name feels distant in her mouth, as though muffled, by snow, by distance, by time. It sinks onto her shoulders like a cloak; the weight is strange, for she had no need of a cloak at the House of Black and White. The stillness of the wood, broken only by the occasional nicker from her mount, is different to the stillness of that assassins’ mystery. This stillness is different, too, to the silence of the heavens above the boat-deck.

She is Arya again. She has set foot for the first time in years upon Westerosi soil, and therefore she is Arya again. The soil is soil, it does not speak to her, it neither welcomes nor rejects her. But amongst the chaos intrinsic to any port city, and indeed the one she lands in is no different, amidst the varying accents raised gruffly into the salty air, she hears a name.

As a Faceless Man, and Arya, too, she knows more than anyone the importance of _names._ She had been confused when the House had released her back into the world. She had thought she had failed an unspoken test. She is not confused now. This is a name only she understands the true significance of. This is a name only she can follow.

Following a _name_ and in the end to catch it, to hold for a moment the sound of it, to understand it, is child’s play for the assassin, not unlike catching alley cats in the bowels of a fortress built in blood, as she once did, in another lifetime. Some names inspire disgust, others indifference. This one sends shivers down her spine. It is the lilt in a song, a joyful, innocent cadence, and it fills her like a well with dread.

_Sansa Stark._

She follows the name from the docks to the inns to the brothels, and from there inland, high up into the mountains of the Vale, and through the Gates of the Moon.

_Sansa Stark lives._

_Sansa Stark screams. Sansa Stark screams, and in the darkness of her home she cannot sleep._

_Sansa Stark survives._

The magic of the House of Black and White is dark. Potent. But it is also silent and swift. It knows not relish, or revel, or rage. And therein lies both its beauty, and its power. It simply _is._

Arya chases the whispers, again and again, her horror growing with every morsel. Sansa Stark’s sorrow, it seems, is widely known. Decried and mourned and pitied, but no-one thinks to change it. And they are fools, Arya thinks grimly, for there are few things in life sweeter than her sister’s smile. What fools they are! But perhaps they do not know beauty the way Arya does. Perhaps they do not appreciate it, the way she does. Arya’s memories of her sister’s beauty are seared into her mind. She did not value them then as she does now, when all she has is memory, a paltry currency in comparison.Her sister’s laugh when she danced, her voice when she sang, even the big-sister look of annoyance when Arya got away with something. All of those things are beautiful, precious to Arya only now that it is too late.

There are other memories too, darker memories, painful memories. If Sansa screams and sobs now as Arya can remember her doing when their father killed Lady, sweet, innocent, trusting Lady…

Arya shivers. She remembers huddling up under the bedclothes, pressing her small hands to her ears, trying to no avail to drown out the haunting sounds coming from her crumpled sister in the next bed, severed as she had been from part of her soul.

The nights were colder then, in high summer than they are now in the dead of winter, when Arya has no bed, only a cloak in which to curl up when darkness falls.

Arya will be a better sister now, she vows solemnly. She will find her sister. She will save her sister. And then, perhaps, her sister will smile again, and some remnant of beauty might yet appear in the world once more.

* * *

The Twins is an evil place. Squat and solid over the crossing, the towers rise over the water, grumpy guards for a bridge. It does not take Arya long to slip inside: the Freys have a talent for overlooking their women. She chooses one of the plain-faced unfortunates who chose to answer violence with violence, turning wooden ladles upon the younger girls, leaving welts upon their skin as welts have been left upon hers. Arya chooses carefully: even when one might assume a target will not be missed, by virtue of being a servant, for example. It takes her three days in the bowels and back-ways of the place to plot her course.

The Faceless Men never fail; and the reputation of the House of Black and White must be upheld.

The Frey men are gluttons, and far too often do they feast. They reserve for themselves the wine, and make their women drink only moon tea, unless married, and Arya’s resolve only hardens.

Arya should have been insulted, had this been the entirety of the task set before her.

But Sansa Stark survives, and so Arya has something yet to work towards, something more than baking sons into pies and serving them to the father, as she plans to do this very evening, something more than poisoning all the wine barrels with a particularly nasty concoction. The victim’s bowels loosen, and remain thus until the body bleeds itself dry. It is not a pleasant way to die.

The word in the kitchens runs that Old Frey is hosting an eminent guest, but Arya will not be swayed. A guest is inconsequential, a guest is nothing. She has given the gift of death to a Sea Lord at a banquet in front of two hundred guests, and the official verdict had been that the man had choked upon a mushroom. Unfortunate, the guests had lamented… but only too predictable: he had been over-fond of mushrooms, after all.

When she serves the pie to Old Frey in his solar, she cannot believe her luck. The House of Black and White maintains to the outside world that luck does not exist. Within the house, however, something rather different is taught: the art of seizing an opportunity, of turning circumstance to advantage.

The weasel’s esteemed guest is none other than the Golden Lion himself, Jaime Lannister. They are in the midst of some argument, something about Kingslayers. Jaime Lannister reacts to that equivocation about as frostily as she could have anticipated. A Lion can be counted upon for his pride, she knows.

The Kingslayer rises to leave, but stops in astonishment. There is a choking in the weasel’s throat; and Arya suspects it is a sound the Kingslayer knows only too well. She reads in his eyes from behind her servant-girl’s face, that it is a sound he more than knows. It is a sound that haunts him, that torments him.

She had not thought him tormented.

That is something to consider.

He stares in shock as Old Frey becomes a husk of blood and bone before his eyes.

She has a decision to make. She steps forward, fluid and silent upon the stone.

He knows that sound too: they are not the steps of a servant.

“Who are you?” He breathes. His eyes are emerald-sharp, but they are not cold. Not yet. She would have wanted to see in Walder Frey’s eyes who was responsible; Jaime Lannister has robbed her of that. But perhaps all is not lost.

This is the Golden Lion. The man who killed his king, who had his own hand chopped off, who, if the widespread rumours are to be believed, fucked his sister. She finds herself curious. She wants to see if he has stomach enough for this.

She peels off the servant-girl’s face, masking the instinctive shudder.

He goes pale, his eyes widen, but he remains standing.

Despite herself, she’s impressed.

Tersely, he repeats his question. 

She smirks, tilting her head. “You knew something was wrong. You could hear it in the way I moved, and yet you waited.” She considers him thoughtfully. “You’re heavier than I, taller, with longer reach, even with your left hand. And still, you don’t move.”

His eyes flash. “I like to know what I’m killing, and for what purpose.”

“Then we shall be here a while.” She drops into the chair opposite his, lifts her boots up onto the table. “Pie?” She offers.

“You must be joking.”

“You’re learning,” she grins, and reaches forward to break off a piece of the buttery crust, enjoying the shocked way he watches as she eats. “Of course it’s poisoned,” she admits lightly.

“You have some sort of elixir which defends you against its effects?”

Her grin widens. “Of course,” she purrs, licking her fingers, relishing the effect. “Or perhaps it was not the crust that was poisoned. Perhaps it was the filling, perhaps it was on the tip of his son’s finger… that is for me to know, and you to wonder.”

“You… that contains _human_ flesh?”

She’s never heard Jaime Lannister - or any Lannister, for that matter - stumble. She hadn’t been certain it was something they knew how to do. “And I drink blood, not wine,” she replies blandly, before breaking into hysterical guffaws at his expression. She’s rather stunned to realise that she’s having _fun._ “Come now, Lion,” she says, recovering, “you cannot expect me to tell you _that._ ”

“Can I expect your name?” He replies instantly.

“Guess correctly, and I’ll spare your life,” she offers, more entertained than she has been in an age. If this is who Arya is now, she rather likes her. She could have killed him instantly, she supposes, but there is something, an old refrain she hears in her mind. His name had not been on her list. Something prevents her from having done with it and killing him. And the House of Black and White only gives the gift to those on the list. His name is not hers to ask for; his face is not hers to take. And so, therefore, she must stay her hand.

“I was not your target,” he realises abruptly.

“Had you been, you would already be dead,” she says, matter-of-fact. She raises an eyebrow. “Do you take my offer?”

“Why make it in the first place?” He frowns. “Why not simply kill me?”

“You already know the answer to the latter; you were not my target.”

“You are one of the Faceless Men.”

“Correct,” she drawls blandly.

“And yet you are Westerosi, I can hear that in your voice. You hide it well, but not entirely.”

“And you are far more observant than you are often taken for,” she returns. Lion and she-wolf watch one another, circling, but not attacking, not yet.

“Kingsguard and Faceless Men are not so dissimilar in that regard: a good Kingsguard fades into the background. He listens. He takes on all the appearance of an automaton. But in his own mind… I listened within the corridors of power for twenty years.” He swallows, shaking himself suddenly from the fierce grip of a memory. “Westerosi, with a grudge against the Freys. Well, that doesn’t narrow it down that much, most of the country held grudges against the weasels. Highborn, dark hair, grey eyes…” he scans her contemplatively, almost blandly, devoid of the lecherousness that makes her skin crawl, that has all too often been her experience as soon as she unties her hair from the knot at her nape. It is strangely comforting. “You’re Arya Stark.”

“You’re cleverer than your father.” Her lips twitch. 

He laughs, stunned. “Now _that_ is something I have never been accused of.”

“And you have been accused of many things.” Her voice is water dripping in the dark, forestalling the question she can see forming in his mind. She has no intention of answering anything concerning the Great Lion.

“I have.” He pauses, before leaning forwards. “Come now,” he scoffs, wishing undoubtedly to provoke her, “you cannot tell me you don’t have opinions about me, about who I am. Jaime Lannister. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honour. I’ve heard it all before.”

“How many people have you killed?”

Visibly surprised, he replies in a manner less guarded than before. “I don’t know. A great deal.”

“I can tell you the number of people I’ve killed. I can tell you their names. I can tell you what they looked like, sounded like, smelled like. I can tell you the way they spoke. What does that make me?” She does not look away from him, and continues, mercilessly. “You play your part and you play it well, but just because you play it well doesn’t make it convincing, not to a Faceless Man. There’s more to the tale, I can see that rather clearly.”

“I - ” he swallows, gathers himself, lifts his chin in defiance. “Our houses were at war. I did what I did in defence of my family.”

“Your family are horrible people,” she snarls. “You, your father, Joffrey, even your brother. And to say nothing of your sister…”

“And yet they are still my family…” he whispers heavily.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that, if you want forgiveness,” she scoffs, grey eyes flashing. “What? You’ve nothing to say? Nothing more with which to defend yourself?”

“You’ve already condemned me, Arya Stark. No,” he continues fiercely, “I think I’ll keep my secrets.”

She makes a decision. “You want honour? Come with me.”

“Where?” He asks hoarsely, entirely still with shock.

“North. To Winterfell. I’m going to save my sister.” She trails off, scanning his face. Her heart begins to thunder in her chest. “You know something. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me,” she snarls, her voice a stiletto in the dark. “What do you know about my sister?”

“If even half of what I have heard is true… you had best be quick.”

“I will be,” she replies ominously.

“Your offer - did you mean it?” He ventures.

Arya bites down a smile. She’s never seen a Lannister uncertain before, and there’s something rather entertaining about such an expression crossing his bewildered features. “I did,” she nods evenly.

“I would not be your prisoner?” He asks, quietly, something defensive about the set of his shoulders.

“No.” She blinks in surprise. That had not been her intent at all. What could she do with Jaime Lannister as her prisoner? Where could she restrain him? What would be the purpose of such an act? “Wherever did you get an idea such as that?”

“You are far more dangerous than your brother ever was, and he held me as his prisoner.” That is quite the compliment, if rather back-handed, Arya thinks.

“I know,” she answers automatically.

“Do you?” And now she sees the Kingslayer. He stands abruptly, leaning over her. She is staring into the Lion’s maw. One wrong move, and she will be ripped apart. She finds herself unnaturally calm. His rage is impressive, but he does not frighten her. “Do you really? He chained me by the neck in a cage.”

“You’re lying.” That is the Arya Stark of old, the child, instinctively defending her family, not the being of quicksilver and moonlight that she has become.

“You’re a Faceless Man,” the Golden Lion says coldly. His eyes are flashing gems, his countenance haunted by remembered terror. Something dark, something ugly and violent, something that should never have been. She cannot speak. “By your own admission you can tell whether or not I’m lying. So look at me. Look at my face, my eyes, and tell me I’m lying. He chained me by the neck in a cage. So forgive me if I am reluctant.”

“I believe you,” she whispers. A confession, an admission of shame, torn reluctantly from her. It hurts her. “I don’t want to believe you,” she continues. “And yet…you’re not lying to me.”

“I had no expectations that you should wish to believe me,” he returns, shrugging, and in some part of her mind, she admires his nonchalance. It seems to her that it is at least partially feigned, but even so.

“Come with me,” she repeats. “Save my sister. She once believed in true knights. Let us show her she was not wrong, in her hopeful innocence, to hold that belief.” She looks at him seriously. “Come with me, help me save my sister, and whatever your crimes, I’ll forgive them. I’ll consider the debt repaid.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Nonetheless,” Arya insists calmly. “Whatever you have done, whatever your crimes, save my sister, and I’ll consider the debt repaid.”

“You mean that,” he says, his voice strangled. “You truly mean that? You don’t know what you’re offering me.”

“You’re afraid. You think there is something you have done that is truly unforgivable, and it is not the act which gave you the name _Kingslayer,_ ” Arya surmises grimly.

“Yes,” he says, defeated.

“I cannot make the choice for you,” she continues, impassively. “It must be your own. If you will not have faith in the word of an assassin, have faith in my sister. She is worth fighting for, I promise you that.”

The Kingslayer swallows harshly at her words, and then, slowly, he nods. “I’ll send my armies back to the Rock. It should not take me long to organise; my captains are competent men. And then, if you will have me, I will fight with you, to save your sister. You have my word, such as it is.”

“Good,” she rejoins, satisfied, flashing her teeth in a wolfish smile, dark and dangerous.

It is enough. For now, it is enough. The Faceless Men of the House of Black and White deal in names, and she has three names now. One to find, one to aid, and one in the stone and shadow and snow to be.

She is Arya again, and it is enough for now.

* * *


	2. ARYA II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you yet know more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments and encouragement, it really means a great deal! I'm having a lot of fun with this, so I can't wait to see what you think of it!
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

ARYA II

* * *

_would you know yet more?_

_Axe-age, sword-age, | shields are sundered,_

_Wind-age, wolf-age, | ere the world falls_

_Völuspá, the Poetic Edda_

* * *

The Kingslayer is not so terrible a travelling companion as she had feared. For the most part, he does not speak, but he is willing enough to help set up camp in the evenings and take care of the horses. Then he does speak to the animals, in a low rumble, as he runs is left hand over their flanks, and every morning and evening, without fail, down their legs, looking for any unnatural heat or stiffness that spells doom for horse and traveller alike.

Neither is he afraid of her, which Arya finds curious. Even one-handed, the Kingslayer does not fear her. He is content to ride along silently.

It is Arya who is afraid. It is she who has this slithering morass of eels in her belly, not he. Will the Kingslayer turn his horse around, and leave her to continue North alone? Will she find her sister? Or merely her corpse?

No name has ever meant as much to Arya as her sister’s. More than vengeance, more than fury, more than despair. Her sister’s name is none of those things. Her sister’s name is something purer, something that will let Arya be _Arya,_ and not merely another Faceless Man. Something worth fighting for, instead of only something she has been told to end, or something she wishes to end.

But Sansa is already a ghost, lingering painfully in Arya’s memory, and she worries ceaselessly that she is too late. The Kingslayer has not spoken except to give her a grim warning: that he hopes only half of what he has heard is true.

And that is how Sansa returns to haunt her. A murmur of her voice upon the winter wind, a caress as chilling as it is gentle. Red winterberries that Arya mistakes for a flash of her sister’s russet hair, tangled in the branches. A clue left behind for her to find, to reassure her that she is on the right path.

Once the haunting begins in earnest, Arya seeks to conjure up her sister, to make from shadows, flesh, and from mist, blood. To form from this lonely wood her sister’s soul, and lighten it with the dance of leaves through the branches, to render it beautiful once more with rich, vivid colour.

But the elder Stark sister is elusive, and dances away from Arya’s conjuring of her.

And so Arya begins to speak. Names have power. Words have power. This is no mere conjuring, no mere reminiscing. Arya tells the Kingslayer everything about her sister that she can remember - down to the smallest detail of her dress or shoes, or coloured ribbon. Down to the precise tenor of the stars glimmering in the elder Stark sister’s eyes.

This is no conjuring. 

This is a life-giving, messy, painful, uncertain.

This is nothing less than sheer desperation, though she might not show it. An attempt to hold to something worth fighting for. What is spoken cannot be unspoken.

The Kingslayer listens, rapt, to her every word, and that she is surprised by. She does not require his attention for herself, but she does require it for her sister. She does demand it. For Sansa, she demands it.

Arya is greedy. For recognition and acceptance and love, like any other mortal. But she is also greedy for these memories. She wants them to be made real again. It is no longer enough for them to be an anchor, for them to be a past that can never be reclaimed. It is no longer enough.

“Would you yet know more?” Arya asks the Kingslayer as they prepare for yet another night sleeping on the ground, taking alternate watches.

When Arya speaks about her sister there is more than a spark of interest in the Lion of Lannister’s eyes. There is something soft, something pure, something profoundly human, and Arya understands. There is some deep affinity between the Kingslayer and her sister, though unspoken. Arya is not certain even the Kingslayer realises how much, and yet his reaction to her retellings of Sansa’s childhood tell her everything she needs to know.

A world where he can be a renowned knight, where he can have the love and favour of a gentle lady, where evil does not exist, where he can be the untainted version of himself he desired to be when he was a young child - that is the Kingslayer’s deepest desire.

A world where Sansa could be a lady, having the love and adoration of her husband, giving him everything in return, where they could have a family and be deliriously happy - that had been Sansa’s deepest desire as a child.

Arya blinks. The Kingslayer and her tender-hearted sister are each other’s childhood fantasy.

This is not that longed-for world.

And yet fantasies are not so easily dismissed. Arya knows that well enough herself.

_Would you yet know more?_

_Yes._

* * *

A haunting, a conjuring, a life-giving - and now an encounter. After Arya and the Kingslayer have crossed the Neck to find themselves at last in the North proper, there is a strange sound that carries to them upon the wind. Both horses prick their ears, snort and prance uneasily, chuffing at the bit.

And then a howl that makes Arya gasp. Followed by another, and another, and another, an eerie symphony, a melody that makes her heart race. Shapes dark and moving in the mist, growing larger.

The Kingslayer is talking lowly to his horse, tangling his good hand in the destrier’s mane. Arya hurriedly does the same, her eyes straining upon the shapes. Her heart is pounding; her ears are ringing like bells. She can hardly dare to breathe, to hope -

“Nymeria!”

But not only Nymeria, but a pack, hundreds of them, of wolves both common and dire, circling, howling, but not displaying any desire to battle. The dire-cubs stick closely to Arya’s wolf, and Arya’s heart melts at the sight.

Arya dismounts, flicking her horse’s reins at the Kingslayer with a hurried “Catch!”, and she flings herself at her direwolf.

* * *

The wolves follow them, sharing the spoils of the hunt - rabbits, though thin at this time of year, and even the odd unfortunate buck. Out of the skins and furs she makes her and her companion shoddy mittens and hats, to better protect them against the cold. For Sansa she even attempts to embroider a third set of mittens, but her stitches are not as precise as she would like them, though much improved from her childhood. Arya has spent far too much time around dead bodies to not have learned how to sew skins.

The Kingslayer looks at her curiously when she offers him the hat. She’s used the deerskin for the structure of the thing, then lined the outside with rabbit fur, with hanging flaps to cover the ears.

“You cannot help me save my sister if you die of the cold. The weather will get much worse between Moat Cailin and Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Lady Arya,” he replies solemnly.

That night the Kingslayer dreams, and wakes Arya and a good portion of the wolves huddled around them with his screams.

He is subdued in the morning, a grim set to his jaw, insisting they pick up their pace. Arya nods, vaults into her saddle, and urges her horse onwards, and only then does she question him. She does not entirely expect an answer; he will keep his secrets and she does respect that, but he replies nevertheless.

“If you hadn’t had several weeks before now to place some sort of curse upon me, Faceless Man,” the Kingslayer says wearily, “I would have thought you had done so, given what I dreamt last night.”

“You don’t think I could curse you?” Arya drawls.

Jaime Lannister snorts. “Of course you could, Arya Stark. You’re a Faceless Man.”

“And yet?” Arya raises an eyebrow.

“If my dreams last night were the result of a curse, that curse would have been far more effective earlier in our quest.” Broken sleep, it seems, has loosened the Lion’s tongue.

“You dreamt of my sister,” Arya surmises, shivering in her cloak. It is the only thing that makes sense. Her conjuring of her sister has served some purpose, then. That is more than what she had hoped. “And your dreams caused you to scream? Sansa is not cruel.” That is the part that does not make sense.

Jaime Lannister turns haunted eyes upon Arya, and for a long time he says nothing. “It - it was not what was done to me. It was what was done to her.”

Arya trembles.

The Kingslayer continues, wearily. Something has ripped in him. “I know what captivity feels like, what it does to a man. I know, too, what torture and humiliation feel like. I would not wish that upon my worst enemy.”

“No?” It is the only thing she can say, the only thing she can focus on. “What would you wish, then, upon your worst enemy?” She has wished terrible, painful vengeance upon others in the past. She has had a list of names. The House of Black and White taught her discipline, taught her to master the list instead of allowing the list to master her.

“Death,” the Lion replies. “But a quick, clean death. A fair death.” He pauses, before smirking, green eyes flashing sharply. “Death, preferably where I have dealt the killing blow myself, and then an unmarked grave. That is what I would wish upon my worst enemy. My enemies do not deserve more of my time than that.”

_An unmarked grave._ Arya looks keenly at her companion. “Memory is all of us that remains, after we die.” He is his father’s son.

“I see you understand exactly.” He smiles coldly, then, though his arrogant nonchalance cannot fully hide the shadows lingering in his gaze. “Let me strike the killing blow against your sister’s tormentor, Arya Stark, and you may have the corpse to do with as you will. Feed it to your pack of wolves, for all I care. Or, if they are more discerning in their taste, have it hacked to pieces and let the crows feast on the eyes and tongue.”

“What makes you think the bastard will still have a tongue?” Arya snarls. “For every time he has raised his voice to my sister, I will strike his mouth. For every time he has raised a fist to her, I will break his bones. For every time he has hurt her, I will _knife_ him.” Daggers are the more intimate weapons. She wants to feel the monster’s life and strength leech from him, _and by her hand._ “Why should I make such a bargain with you? Why should I give you the kill?”

“Because I know impulse, Lady Arya, and I know regret. Faced with him, can you be certain you could keep it clean?”

“And you can?” Arya retorts. “Because my sister is merely a quest for you? You think you can kill the monster and get the glory? She’s _my_ sister. I care about her, I love her. You? You want your reputation restored. You want to live in a world where you succeed on this quest. That is why you are doing this.”

“Do not think to tell me the way I may or may not feel about her,” the Lion roars.

“You don’t want my sister, you don’t care about my sister,” Arya continues, shouting. _Goading._

“You think I had not noticed your little game? The way you conjured up your sister and attempted to make her real? You think I would not understand why you did so? You are clever, Arya Stark. It was a good plan, and it worked. With every word you spoke I found myself invested. And then, last night, I dreamed of her, of _your_ sister.” Arya mislikes the emphasis, the derisive way his mouth curls around the words. “I saw what that _monstrous blackguard_ is doing to her - and let me tell you this: whatever you have thought, whatever nightmare you have conjured, you could magnify it a hundredfold and still not come close to what I saw last night.”

She shivers at the darkness in the Kingslayer’s voice, at what he describes, but she pursues recklessly, like Nymeria with a bone she will not give up. “And you make yourself painfully straightforward to read, Lion. You must have left your ability as an automaton in the capital. You want to play the hero - ”

“I love her! I love _Sansa_!”

Both of them still, with shock, reeling from the violence of the confession she has torn from his lips. The Kingslayer looks at Arya as though he is seeing a ghost, and it unsettles her.

“Those words were not yours to hear, Arya Stark,” he murmurs eventually, bitterly, his left hand clutching convulsively upon his reins.

He spurs on his warhorse, something proud and resentful and defensive about the set of his shoulders and Arya is left shivering in her saddle.

* * *

The Kingslayer watches her, warily, when they stop to make camp for the night, and it startles Arya. She had not realised how quietly comfortable he had become, until now, when it is plainly obvious that he is no longer.

Swallowing, brushing Nymeria’s fur offhandedly for courage, relishing the warmth of her direwolf at her side, she finds it within herself to offer an olive branch. “The kill is yours, Jaime Lannister,” she states blandly. Apologies have never been something she has been good at - not when it concerns something important. Sansa, after all, had not accepted Arya’s apologies for destroying a dress the younger sister now understands was stupendously expensive, and whose destruction had political implications for Sansa’s future. Nor had Sansa accepted Arya’s apology about Lady, even though Sansa’s manners had always been flawless. Arya had nursed that resentment, and she fights against the bile that rises in her throat at the sight of the Kingslayer’s incredulous expression. Arya is shocked to realise that this matters to her. It matters as much as her apologies to Sansa had mattered to her.

Arya understands, now, Sansa’s reactions. She has accepted them.

It _had_ been wrong of Arya, as it was wrong of her to goad the Lion about so personal a matter. Nevertheless, Arya hopes.

“Thank you, Arya Stark,” he replies quietly, eyes wide. So he had not expected it either. Then, with a sharp smile, he continues. “And the corpse is yours.”

She snorts a laugh, lightheaded. Grinning, she sticks out her left hand.

He shakes it, and her smile widens. In this desolate, haunted landscape, the lion and the she-wolf reach a true détente. 

* * *

Even before they have crested the hill, Arya and the Kingslayer can see the smoke, thick and dark, a streak of mud against the white clouds.

“Call in your wolves, Arya Stark,” Jaime Lannister says, halting his horse, “and get down. We don’t want to be seen against the sky.”

Nonplussed and confused, Arya does so, drawing comfort from the silent wolves around her, and they crawl up the last bit of the rise. Only when her chin is touching the snow as they peer over the edge of the moor, looking down at Winterfell, does she understand. The Kingslayer has hidden his golden hand beneath his cloak, to avoid being seen. The Bolton banner, that garish, horrific sigil, flies above her ancestral castle, and Arya narrowly avoids being sick into the snow. It is _wrong._ It feels so wrong. In all her imaginings, she had never imagined returning home like this. This is not home. This is a desecration. This is a razing of her dreams to the ground, a sowing of salt in the earth.

And Sansa is in the middle of _that._

This time Arya cannot stop the bile, and she is deeply embarrassed to see the Kingslayer regarding her with something that looks strangely like sympathy. She doesn’t want it, and she almost growls at him, but for his next words.

“The main gate is open… but that’s too obvious,” Jaime Lannister murmurs. “That is exactly where I’d lay a trap - and by all accounts the Bolton Bastard is very fond of traps.” He looks at her sharply. “Is there another way into the castle?”

“There’s the Wolfswood Gate,” Arya begins, but the Kingslayer shakes his head.

“No. Something far less obvious. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand how strange this is? You don’t leave a fortress undefended. You might leave the appearance of it being undefended, but you do not actually empty it of your soldiers. Not unless you are being colossally stupid, and even then… that would be an insult to stupidity itself. Every single gate is defended, even when it looks as though it is not. So, Arya Stark, I ask you again, is there another way in?”

“What makes you think there is?” She snaps.

He smiles, a sharp, cold, humourless smile. “Oh, Arya Stark… there’s always another way in.”

“Even the Rock?” She cannot help asking the question.

His eyes flash, but he does answer. “Yes, even Casterly Rock. One, known to the majority of my house. And a second, which is truly secret, only known to the Lord of Lannister and his heir at any one time.”

“You did not tell your siblings?” She finds that difficult to believe.

“No, I did not,” he replies tersely. “Now, do you want to rescue your sister or not?”

“Of course! How can you even think - ”

“Well then. What is it?”

She stares straight ahead at the main gates of the fortress, left open. She wants to rush inside. To call her sister’s name. But a Faceless Man has learnt caution, and restraint, and the importance of cunning and logic. And so, as much as she dislikes it, she does understand what the Lion is saying.

“The crypts,” she says quietly, eventually. “There’s a way in through the crypts. Nymeria knows it.”

* * *

It is not the crypts themselves that present the greatest problem. Rather, it is the getting to the crypts in the first place, which involves breaking into an ancient barrow hidden in the hillside, where the dead have long since crumbled from bone to dust, and then slowly putting one foot in front of the other down a wandering tunnel of a path, black as pitch. Arya holds grimly onto the scruff of Nymeria’s neck, and lets the direwolf guide her. With her other hand she holds the Kingslayer’s wrist, above his metal hand.

She loses any sense of time, or place. There is only the dark, the warmth of Nymeria’s fur, and an oddly determined, silent-footed Lion of Lannister beside her. She has been blind before, of course. Every Faceless Man has. But this is not as that was. That had been totally, terrifyingly disorientating. Now, she finds herself sinking back into those habits and skills so sharply taught to her at the House of Black and White. How to listen, how to sense a scale of the space. How to move with complete trust in her body. 

The air loses the crisp dryness of the tunnel and the barrow, becoming more still. Becoming colder and damper, until Arya’s tunic sticks uncomfortably to the back of her neck. And then, though she still cannot see with her eyes, she feels the space expand. The air is muffled here, stiller than she remembers as a child. But then she had not ventured so deeply into the lower levels of the crypts. Her footsteps and those of the Kingslayer’s echo here, harsh against the flagstones, ringing against the carved statues of the first Kings of Winter.

Arya does not dare speak. Scent here is dead. So too is light, so is life. Bones to dust. The names of her forefathers, chiseled into the stone she cannot read. They had hearts, once. They were banners, blood, claws and fangs, once upon a distant time. Now, they are only runes, bled dry of blood. Runes and steel, forged during the dawn of men. Always have the Kings of Winter been buried with their steel. Now they have no hands to clutch their blades, though the weapons remain.

_Would you yet know more?_

She shivers, and continues up, up, up, into the higher crypts, these empty where those below were full, once, and now empty once again.

Still no light, still no warmth, but her pace increases.

She remembers this.

And then, at long last, when they reach the final gate, she opens it, and the wolves streak past, howling, and Arya smiles at the sound, ringing like bells.

Let these Bolton monsters fear the ancient dark of Winterfell. Let them fear these crypts, and that which emerges from them.

Let them fear.

To rescue one of their own the wolves are here.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	3. ARYA III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood for blood, love for love. My sister is innocent. Castle of my ancestors, I demand satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you're all well and safe, and enjoying the holiday season. Thank you as always for your encouragement and support, I really appreciate it. This chapter was challenging to write, mostly due to the many tonal shifts. I hope you all enjoy this next instalment!

* * *

PART THREE

* * *

ARYA STARK

Smoke and dust and shadowed is her return to Winterfell. With wolves snarling in the halls, fangs dripping with wine-dark blood, claws scraping the stone, howling, cutting down Bolton man after Bolton man, though there are far fewer soldiers in the fortress than Arya expects, and this sets her teeth on edge. She lets Nymeria guide her through the corridors, her heart thundering when she realises where she is being led, the Kingslayer at her side, more competent with his left hand than any other knight has a chance of being with his right.

Surely, surely -

But no, the doorway is the same, if battered and locked from the outside. Exchanging grim glances with Jaime Lannister, Arya draws a pin from her hair and picks the lock. The door swings open with a horrible sound like nails scraping down slate, to reveal a sight more horrible still. The floor is littered with broken, bloody shards of glass. The shutters have been torn from the windows, the better to let in the howling winds and snow. Of the furniture all is overturned barring the bed, shoved in the far corner.

And upon the bed is a body, curled, unmoving, naked, skin matted with bruises and blood. Arya cannot move, cannot do anything but stare, in heartbroken, furious disbelief. She blinks again, willing the image to change; it does not.

“Arya,” the Kingslayer says, jolting her out of her shock. “Light a fire in the grate, would you?” He moves towards the bed, unbuckling his cloak, speaking over his shoulder. “Arya, the fire, now, and then your cloak too.”

“Yes,” she says hurriedly, and with Nymeria bringing her logs she rapidly accomplishes the task, and by the light and warmth of a roaring fire she approaches the bed with trepidation. Sansa has not stirred, not even flinching at the sensation of wool suddenly touching her skin. “We need to get her out of here, she’s frozen.”

“Where?” The Lion of Lannister nods, gathering Arya’s sister gently, carefully into his arms.

“Follow me.” Arya leads him to a secluded part of the castle, through secret passageways, the air heating around them, until at last they emerge in a steamy cavern; the underground hot springs Winterfell is built upon, and the only place Arya can think of that will force the life back into Sansa.

* * *

The wait is long, far too long. Arya pours water down Sansa’s throat, to no avail. The Kingslayer refuses to give up, grimly silent, repeating the actions again and again, counting the number of breaths Sansa takes, measuring her pulse in her wrist. Her heart beats sluggishly, and she lies, motionless, wrapped in cloaks, Nymeria at her back in an attempt to warm her, and still the elder Stark sister does not wake up. Arya sets to cleaning her sister’s legs of dried blood, paling when the water reveals hundreds of neat stitches. _Her sweet sister has stitched up her own flesh, more than once, judging by the pale scars._

Arya narrowly avoids vomiting, for the second time that day.

And then she gets to work, ignoring the discomfort she feels at not being alone to do this. She slices her palm with her dagger, and lets seven drops of blood fall onto her sister’s lips, macabre against the deathly pallor of Sansa’s skin. The House of Black and White taught her many things; including the long forgotten magics that built this fortress in the first place. She remembers being astonished that her family had forgotten so much of their own heritage and power. 

Arya may not have been able to protect or defend her sister in the past; but she can do this, and she grits her teeth as her own legs begin to bleed, before being punctured by stitch after stitch.

That gets the Kingslayer’s attention. “What are you doing, you fool!”

“Taking her wounds as my own,” Arya grimaces, panting. “Sansa has bled more than enough for Winterfell. It’s my turn now. Sansa will wake, you’ll see. The castle must protect her now. It must repay her sacrifice.”

“And you think she wants to wake to see you like this, bleeding out?” The Kingslayer’s fury genuinely shocks her.

“I am very difficult to kill. See you on the other side, Lannister.”

_Blood for blood, love for love. My sister is innocent. Castle of my ancestors, I_ demand _satisfaction._

Arya reaches with her mind, feeling the ancient presence in the walls and stones and water, in the wind and the earth, and she _pulls,_ demanding that it wakes _. Come now, castle of my ancestors, fulfil your oath._

And in the godswood, a red leaf falls from the branches of the weirwood.

* * *

The first thing she hears is her sister’s voice, and Arya keeps her eyes closed, savouring the moment. It is too quiet to make out words, but how sweet the sound!And then an answer, lower, just as quiet - the Lion of Lannister. Arya cracks open an eyelid, and sees her sister and the knight unable to keep their eyes off each other. He lifts Sansa’s hand to his lips.

Arya smirks to herself. And then she coughs, deliberately, and sits up, slowly. “I’m glad to see the two of you getting on,” Arya drawls.

The Kingslayer sputters but Sansa lights up like the stars themselves, smiling radiantly. “Arya,” she breathes, fluttering closer, “I’m so glad to see you. And Ser Jaime told me what you did - you shouldn’t have, it was far too dangerous.” Her sister’s hands cup her cheeks.

“You are my sister,” Arya replies firmly, looking directly into her sister’s eyes. “No Stark has bled as much for Winterfell as you; it was about time the castle remembered its responsibilities. Besides, I don’t mind taking on your wounds. I have not bled for Winterfell as you have done, up until now, so it’s only fair, really,” and all of a sudden both of them are weeping in each other’s arms.

“You came for me,” Sansa trembles. “Robb and Mother abandoned me but you came - Arya - you and Ser Jaime came for me.” She laughs wetly. “I’m dreaming and I never want to wake up again. I’m dreaming.”

“My Lady Sansa,” Jaime Lannister says then, taking her hand, “this is no dream.”

There is a wealth of meaning in the way the two of them look at each other, Arya realises.

“Do you promise me, Ser Jaime?” Sansa says, tears clinging to her eyelashes.

“I promise.”

“That is not the only promise you have kept, Ser Jaime,” Arya interjects, and the Kingslayer startles. “You have helped me save my sister. Your debts are all repaid. You may leave Winterfell with the compliments and gratitude of House Stark, and return to your armies at Casterly Rock, if you so desire.”

He swallows harshly, and then looks at Arya’s sister. “I would linger here, if I may.”

Arya shrugs. “I’ve grown used to having you around, Lannister. But it isn’t my permission you need. Sansa is the Stark in Winterfell.”

“You are welcome here, my lord,” Sansa answers, blushing. The Lion of Lannister looks like he is seeing the sun rise for the very first time.

“Well, in that case,” Arya says, “hold out your hand, Jaime Lannister. No,” she continues deliberately. “Your right hand.”

He gapes, but does so. Arya frowns over the weight of gold.

“Arya?” Sansa’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“I cannot give you back your flesh, Jaime Lannister,” Arya says solemnly, “but I can do this.” She concentrates, warming the metal under her palms. “Come on, castle, _I demand it. This man bled and fought for the Stark in Winterfell without expectation of recompense. Honour his sacrifice.”_ Arya feels the presence in her mind huff, and in the end acquiesce.

“What in the Seven Hells?” Jaime Lannister yelps.

“The Seven have no power here,” Arya cannot help but quip. “This is ancient magic, old as the Old Gods, though it is _not_ them. This is Winterfell. _Winter is coming. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ We protect the castle, the castle protects us. This is not merely our home; this is a promise. And when one side more than keeps their side of the promise, reparations can be extracted. Sansa Stark, the Key to the North, Blood of Winterfell, Stark in Winterfell, beaten and tortured and humiliated for Winterfell, for years. And still my sister’s faith did not waver. Even when Winterfell and the Starks turned from her, she did not turn from them in her heart, even when made to pay the price over and over again that would have made grown men waver, she did not. So the castle has quite a lot to make up to my sister.”

“That does not explain my hand,” the Kingslayer says hoarsely, flexing his newly movable right hand, each finger in turn, disbelievingly. He pulls up his sleeve to see. It is still made of gold, but it is part of him again, with fingers he can move and control again, instead of the blunt appendage it had been. The metal is now warm and fluid as skin over muscle and bone, and he laughs, incredulously, his eyes suspiciously bright.

Sansa is merely looking back and forth between the two of them, blue eyes wide.

“On the contrary; it most certainly does,” Arya explains. “You fought for my sister; you rescued the Stark in Winterfell from a place she should have been safe in. _The castle should be ashamed of itself,_ ” Arya snarls, not backing down when the ancient presence growls and grumbles in her mind.

“You can feel the castle?” Sansa asks quietly, and Arya understands what she does not say. _I never have._

“I was taught at the House of Black and White in Braavos. I am not surprised you haven’t been able to sense the castle.”

“Because I am not Stark enough,” Sansa surmises bitterly, her voice heavy with old hurt. “Even after bleeding for Winterfell for years, I am not Stark enough. And why should I be? I do not look like a Stark, and I am too soft, too gentle.”

“No!” Arya exclaims. “That is not what I meant at all! I simply meant that you were so preoccupied with surviving, as you should have been, you did not have the extra energy to pull along the thread that connected your blood to the castle.” And then, unable to bear the doubt in her sister’s eyes, she adds, more vehemently. “I learnt too late the value of gentleness, of kindness - Sansa, it is not something to be ashamed of. It is something worth fighting for. Don’t you see? You are the best of us.”

“But - you took my scars, my wounds. Why?”

“Because it was my choice to do so. You did not have a choice, and you endured nonetheless, my brave, sweet sister. It is not a burden you should have to bear. I am not naive to think that memories can be thus erased, but it will help. And I wanted to help you.” Arya squeezes her sister’s hand, heartened when Sansa squeezes back. “Now, the wolves should have secured the castle for us,” she continues, feeling along the bond with the wolves, and sensing their satisfied bloodlust. “I’ll go and round up some servants and see about some rooms and clothes and proper food instead of these meagre rations. And a hairbrush for you, Sansa.”

“Thank you, Arya,” Sansa smiles softly. “I think there are still various oils and soaps down here to wash with, so you don’t need to waste time with that.”

Arya stands with a nod. “I will leave you both to it.” She can see clearly that the two of them are restraining themselves for her sake, restraining themselves to looks and brief touches of palm to palm, when both of them yearn for - the knight yearns to wrap the lady in his embrace and hide her from the rest of the world, and the lady yearns for safety of strong arms around her and the pounding of a heart in time with hers. They want to whisper and murmur endearments, promises, and Arya is abruptly and dangerously reminded of the Kingslayer’s broken _those words were not yours to hear, Arya Stark._

She is halfway to the steps when the Kingslayer’s voice rings out commandingly. “Arya, remember. The body is yours to do with as you will, but the kill is mine.”

“I remember,” she replies evenly. That doesn’t mean Nymeria and the rest of the wolves cannot maul and bruise and castrate the Bastard first. 

* * *

The remaining servants at Winterfell hurry to do her bidding, and she supposes she makes rather a sight, bloodied as she is, with the gait of a trained killer and the stiletto-sharp smile to accompany it. From the dying Bolton guardsmen she learns that the Bolton Bastard has left Winterfell to fight Stannis’s forces in the woods, and she sets the wolves on a watch for his return.

When she returns to the hot springs Sansa and the Kingslayer are still in the water, in separate pools, though leaning on the ledges to talk to each other and caress a jawline or press a chaste kiss to a cheek or run a hand through the other’s sopping hair. They are so consumed with each other that they don’t notice Arya at all, so she decides to strip, the wounds from her sister already faded, and jump into the same pool as Sansa, splashing her. 

“Arya!” Sansa protests.

Arya grins, feeling like a child again, and splashes giddily at her sister. “Make me stop.”

Sansa smirks, mischievousness glimmering in her eyes. “I can do better than that.” And she whacks a wave of water straight into Arya’s face.

Arya chokes and splutters and laughs, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. She is about to retaliate when she feels something being pressed into her palm.

“Wash, Arya. I’ve finished with this,” Sansa orders. “And then I’ll comb your hair and put oils in it when you’re done.” She pauses, turning to the Lannister in the next pool, who has been watching the Stark sisters with great amusement. “Turn around, Ser Jaime,” she requests, blushing. Her blush darkens when the Lion of Lannister winks at her but does as asked. Arya snorts to herself. Watching the two of them flirt is rather amusing, but the sentiment is tempered by the hope she feels - she had not truly thought to a future in which Sansa was alive to flirt with anyone, and so to see her do it actually makes Arya’s heart ache. Sansa lives. And life and hope have returned to the elder Stark sister’s expression, and Arya knows that Jaime Lannister is as much, if not more the cause of that than Arya herself.

Arya takes the soap and occupies with scrubbing weeks, months worth of grime and blood and war and travelling from her skin and hair. When Arya resurfaces, Sansa has wrapped herself in the thickest dressing gown Arya was able to ask the servants to find. But what intrigues Arya is the way her sister is sitting on the ledge of the Kingslayer’s pool. The man has bared his neck to her, his head resting back against her, his eyes shut, and Sansa is lathering and shaving the man’s jaw and neck with smooth, assured motions. Sansa ruffles his hair every now and again, smoothing her palms over the newly shaved skin of his cheeks and - is Jaime Lannister purring? Arya stifles a laugh, and exits her own pool, her ablutions finished, and dries herself off, paying special attention to her hair. Wet hair and cold are together a recipe for disaster.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?
> 
> next time: Sansa POV


	4. SANSA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both have her loyalty until the day she dies and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you as always for your enthusiasm and encouragement, it means a great deal! I'm having a lot of fun with this, and I hope you enjoy this next instalment!
> 
> Until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

If this is a dream, then let her never wake. Her sister is here, in Winterfell. Her sister has rescued her, with a pack of hundreds of dire and common wolves. Her sister has rescued her, with the Kingslayer’s aid.

Kingslayer. Ser Jaime Lannister. The Golden Lion. She’s been dreaming of him, too. She has been dreaming of him for months. And she had thought, the first time it had happened, that she had finally gone mad. That her torturers had managed at last to entirely break her mind. For what other reason could she dream of Casterly Rock, a place she has never been to?

And yet - and yet it had felt so _real._ The warmth of the sand beneath her bare feet. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore, constant, soothing. And the _sunlight,_ the sight of the clear open sky above her. By the gods she has missed sunlight, the feel of it against her skin, shut up as she has been in her childhood bedroom of her own castle, in the hands of a monster. The strange, terrifying sensation of being able to move her body without tearing open her wounds, without the pain. A peace that should have felt numbing, but that was a heartbreaking balm instead. A small cove where she could simply be left alone, in the shadow of the Rock, a sanctuary, somewhere she had no tainted memories. Something that should have been ominous felt comforting and protective instead. Something she soon found herself reaching for the moment the Bolton Bastard would enter her room, bolting the door behind him, advancing upon her with that leering madness in his gaze. Something that made it easy for her to go away inside, to escape her own body in some way, to protect herself from what was happening to her.

One night, she hadn’t been able to go away inside. Her meagre food or her drink, she doesn’t know - but something. Something had been slipped into her portion, something to keep her aware. That had been one of the worst nights of her life. She had genuinely believed her heart would give out with the agony of it. In the end she had begged for an end, begged for death. She had wanted it. That had angered _him_ further, and he’d denied her, forced her to remain awake, and she’d panicked. To this day, she does not know what caused it, whether she’d dreamed it, but - she’d heard a roar.

She’d turned her head, and seen him - Ser Jaime - standing there, in the corner of the wreckage of her childhood bedroom. Witnessing her humiliation, her torture, and not turning away, the way everyone else had done. Drawing his sword instead, though one-handed. In his green eyes, warring with his fury, she’d seen the sunlight upon the water, and with the last of her strength she’d lifted a hand to reach out and grasp his golden hand.

And then she’d fallen, only to find herself on her hands and knees, warm sand beneath her palms, and she’d trembled, violently, with relief. This time, not alone. Ser Jaime Lannister was with her, watching her carefully, with concern, and before he could say anything, she’d crawled into his arms and wept. She doesn’t know how or why, but he had made her feel safe.

_This is your sanctuary, my lady._ He’d said to her, lowly. _And your sister and I will find you. We are on our way North. Keep faith. You are no longer alone. If we have to fight our way through the whole North to get to you, your sister and I, will do so. Keep faith._

_Stay,_ she’d gasped. _Stay. Hold me._ She had wanted to feel something other than violence upon her skin. And he had; he had wrapped himself protectively around her,kissed the crown of her head, and together they had watched the waves and the setting sun.

_My sanctuary. My solace._

From then on, she had dreamed of him every night. And she had kept hope because of him. Because of the assurance in his voice, the gentleness of his touch. In the harsh light of day, when she would catalogue new wounds, she’d wondered if she was mad. And then she’d decided she didn’t care. If this was her only remaining comfort, she would not deny it to herself, whether it was a figment of her imagination or not.

* * *

Somehow, it _is_ real. Because she wakes to his voice in the hot springs in the bowels of the castle, and that, along with Arya and Nymeria beside her, convince her. Arya has taken on her wounds. She’s overwhelmed.

His presence is so much _more -_ charismatic and powerful and handsome enough to make her swoon and _kind_ he’s so _kind gentle careful_ with her - no-one has ever been so _careful_ with her as him, no-one has ever held her as though she is _precious worth-defending worth-fighting-for -_

And then Arya wakes and makes her laugh by splashing at her in the bathing pools and she has forgotten how much it hurts to laugh - but Ser Jaime is there, amusement glimmering in his green eyes and the steadiness in his countenance anchors her. His fingers, tangled with hers. His hand, cupping her cheek, bringing their foreheads together, brushing back her hair. The steam curling their hair.

“I have dreamed my whole life of tenderness, my lady,” he murmurs against her lips. There is something vulnerable about the set of his mouth, and she dares caress his jawline with her fingertips. “And you - how wondrous you are, to be so tender with me.” 

“My champion, my knight, my rescuer. Ser Jaime,” she sighs. “I have dreamed of tenderness too.”

“You have it,” he replies ardently. “You have my tenderness, my affection, my sword. You have my heart, my body and my soul. You have _me,_ such as I am. I love you.”

She rubs her nose against his, daring playfulness and affection, and she melts at the hope she sees in his eyes. She is smiling broadly, giggling, lightheaded with joy, as she answers. “And I love you, Ser Jaime. You have my heart, my body and my soul.”

“I never thought to have such a love,” he murmurs, dazed. “But I vow you this, I will never take it for granted.”

“And I vow you this, my lord, that at my hands you shall know only tenderness.” She leans up to kiss his forehead, then his nose. He breathes deeply, the line of his shoulders easing.

* * *

Later, she shaves off his beard and trims his hair, and he is entirely languid against her, eyes closed, purring at her touch. She is honoured by the trust he shows her.

“I am myself again,” he drawls, satisfied, admiring her handiwork in the mirror she holds out for him. 

“So you are,” she quips.

“I want everything with you, Sansa,” he continues, and she shivers with delight at the gravelled way he curls his tongue around her name. He catches her hand with his new right hand, and kisses her fingertips, one by one, and then her palm. He turns to look at her properly, standing up, and she swallows convulsively at the alluring sight of water running down his bare torso. She flushes, hardly knowing where to look. He steps closer to where she sits on the ledge of the pool, until he is standing between her legs, and she cautiously lays her palms flat upon his chest, lightheaded at the way he inhales sharply at her touch.

He cups her cheeks with both hands and her gaze snaps up to his. “Your sister and I will deal with your torturer.”

“I know,” she says. “I know you will. I have faith in you both. As overwhelming as it is to have you both fight for me - I know you will set me free of him.”

“And after that?” He questions. She cannot help leaning into his touch. “What do you want?”

What does she _want_? “I have not - I have not thought that far ahead.” Her world, her calendar, had narrowed in this captivity, as it had during her previous captivity in King’s Landing. Survive. Survive this day, and then the next and then the one after that. That had been all. And yet, now that the question has been asked, though she is nominally the Stark in Winterfell, there is only one thing she truly wants. It is the same thing she has always wanted. Her heart speaks before her mind can understand her words. “My family. And… to love and be loved, and to be left in peace to do so.” He is looking at her with something she cannot decipher, so she elaborates. “You brought me Arya. You returned my sister to me. And I love you. That is all I know for certain.”

He frowns. “You do not desire Winterfell? You are the Stark in Winterfell.”

“Desire Winterfell?” She laughs a broken little laugh. “Winterfell is my duty, to my people and my ancestors, to what little remains of my family. But…” she trails off, all at once ashamed, and determined not to be. “How can I desire a place which has betrayed me? How can I desire a place where almost every memory is now tainted either with grief or the heartbreak of abandonment or the most excruciating pain I have ever felt?” Winterfell, her childhood home. Winterfell, with its halls full of ghosts. Winterfell, upon and for whose stones so much of her blood has been shed. She is a Stark and Starks are bound to Winterfell. But Winterfell did not protect her. Winterfell and her sainted Lord Father broke Sansa’s heart first, before any other, first with neglect, and then separating her, irrevocably, from part of her soul at the malicious order of the monarchs. Then the walls meant to protect her instead locked her inside with her torturer. And so the idea that she is meant to want this, to want these halls, the idea that this is meant to be her most fervent desire, revolts her. In the deepest recesses of her heart she can admit that the notion humiliates and shames her, that it petrifies her. She will do her duty, even to a castle and to a people who have disdained her, for years. Never Stark enough, not even as a starry-eyed, innocent, true-born child. Never Stark enough, though she has done more of her duty to Winterfell, far more, then even her elder brother who was Lord of Winterfell before he broke his word and got himself assassinated. She will do her duty as she always has. But _want_? _Desire? Happiness?_ No. Obvious rescue from her torturer aside, Arya’s return is a relief also for the reasons that Sansa no longer, she hopes, has to bear the burden of Winterfell alone.

“Then how do I help you?” The man she loves asks fiercely, his gaze sharp. “How do I make this place bearable for you?”

She trembles. “Love me. Hold me through my nightmares. And, when I am free of - of - ” she cannot say his name aloud.

“Of the Bolton Bastard.”

“Yes.” She shudders, trying to collect herself. “When I am free, will you marry me?”

He looks at her with awe, with wonder. She feels his fingers tremble as they cup her cheeks. “You choose me? You think me worthy of being your husband? You want a family and a life with me?”

“Yes, I do,” she says steadily. “Will you marry me?”

He brushes her cheekbone with his thumb. “Know this, my lady. As you choose me, so I choose you. Yes, I will marry you.”

“Truly?” She had hoped, of course -

His thumb moves from her cheekbone to trace her mouth, his gaze lingering upon her lips, and it melts something in her belly, curling and unravelling languidly. His other hand presses low on her back, and he steps closer still, so she is flush against him, and she sighs, uncaring of her bathrobe getting wet. “Yes,” he says against her mouth, and she thinks, she hopes he is about to kiss her. Instead, he continues speaking, but she doesn’t mind because his declaration is more than she ever could have imagined.

_In my arms you shall know only comfort. In my bed you shall know only pleasure. From my sword you shall know only protection. From my name you shall know only respect. From my heart you shall have my loyalty, my love and my ardent admiration. From my body you shall know passion. From my people and my lands you shall know fealty. From my mind you shall know respect and partnership. In my house you shall know sanctuary and peace, this I vow._

And _then_ he kisses her. 

* * *

“There’s an economy to the way you move,” Sansa tells her sister when the three of them sit down later, in one of the only bedrooms that has not been too vandalised by the Boltons. A fire burns in the grate, crackling merrily away, and there are an abundance of furs to sit and lounge on in front of it. There is more to talk about than where they have been; the castle’s magic, for one, and Arya’s magic for another, and what they intend to do with Winterfell and the North now. She has no doubt that Arya, too, is intensely curious about what lies between Sansa and Ser Jaime, but Arya has learnt patience, it seems, because though the younger Stark considers the two of them carefully, she does not give voice to the many questions Sansa can see forming upon her tongue.

Arya smirks, dividing out the tray of food that has been brought to them. “So there is. But my story is for another day, sweet sister. For now, eat. Regain your strength.”

“Only if you do too,” Sansa replies, leaning back against Ser Jaime’s chest, nibbling on fresh bread, narrowly avoiding bursting into tears. The scent of warm, freshly baked bread, the way it melts in her mouth - it is a revelation, and she sighs with pleasure. All the great dishes of the finest chefs in the capital never tasted this wonderful.

“It’s alright, lovely wolf,” Ser Jaime says, kissing her cheek. “Let yourself enjoy this. I know how overwhelming this is.”And then she does burst into tears, turning to hide her face in his shirt, feeling silly. It is just a loaf of bread. She must have said that aloud because he continues. “It is not just a loaf of bread. I know. I know. I felt the same way, my first meal when I was _safe_ again, after my captivity.” _I know._ How his words soothe and break her heart at once! She is comforted to know - after a lifetime acutely aware of feeling so very different, first from the rest of her family and then to the other nobility at court who did not have to contend with beatings or crushing grief - that what she is experiencing is not uncommon. But the thought of - of _his_ own captivity, at the hands of her elder brother, no less - she trembles, curling up more tightly against Ser Jaime’s chest. Her fingers twist in his shirt, and she gradually is able to concentrate and modulate her breathing upon the strong, steady beating of his noble heart.

“You’re safe now, Sansa,” her fierce little sister says, swallowing the last of her wine. “You are safe. So I want you not to worry about anything at all. Rest in your lover’s arms and dream of happy things.” 

Sansa’s heart fills to overflowing at the affection, mingled with the stern command in her little sister’s voice, even as she blushes violently. _Her lover. Dream of happy things._ “This feels like a dream.” Her voice shakes. “I can hardly believe you’re here. That both of you are here.”

Arya leans forward to cup her cheek. “Believe it.” The younger Stark sister grins, wolfishly, playfully. “Lannister, make my sweet sister believe it, and I promise not to tease you about the smitten kitten that you become around her.” She says his name with a dry, mocking sort of humour, and Sansa cannot but wonder at the strange friendship between her little sister and the man who - the man who holds her heart; the man she intends to marry.

“Smitten kitten!” Ser Jaime sputters at Arya, and Sansa can only watch, more amused and baffled than she ever thought possible.

“Purring house cat,” Arya continues, smirking.

She laughs out loud at the bristling indignation she feels from her betrothed. “The rapport between the two of you intrigues me,” she grins. “It is a tale I look forward to hearing.”

“Tomorrow,” Arya insists gently. “I need a whole night’s sleep, and in a proper bed no less, before I can - it is a tale far too lengthy for what remains of the evening.” She glances slyly at Ser Jaime. “I have to do justice to my meeting with your father, for example, Lannister.”

He laughs in turn, and she smiles, letting herself revel in his embrace, allowing herself to feel the warmth of his body enveloping hers. In truth, she is not dissatisfied to leave the extended conversations until the morrow. She is still too overwhelmed by her sudden and spectacular change of fortunes to discuss anything serious with any kind of equanimity.

It is the pleasantest meal she has had in years, though she cannot bring herself to eat too much. Arya is dissatisfied by this, but it is the man in whose company the Stark sisters currently find themselves who tells her she should not force herself. At the younger Stark’s dark look, Ser Jaime explains. “Her stomach will have shrunk in her captivity; the product of starvation. Small meals, more frequently, until she recovers.”

Then, the conversation turns to Sansa’s torturer, and despite the heat of the room she shivers. “Just tell me when it’s done,” she interrupts, her teeth chattering. “Tell me when he’s dead, and I am safe.”

“You _are_ safe, my lady,” Ser Jaime growls into her ear at that. “I will not let you be hurt again, I _vow_ it.”

“I vow it too, Sansa,” Arya repeats, emphatically. “Nothing will get past me, or the wolves, or even the Kingslayer here.”

She is sure of herself down to her bones, of her heart, in a way she has never been before. She _knows_ him. His embrace, far from frightening her, brings her peace and warmth. From the first touch of his hand around her waist, she has felt protected with him, by him.

Her ordeal is over - she can hardly believe it, but it is, because of her little sister. Because of the Kingslayer. Because both of them fought for her when everyone else had already written her off as a lost cause, as dead, as unworthy of aid.

They both have her loyalty until the day she dies and beyond.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


End file.
